Off the coast of Florida
13 September 2002
Map
1
Desperation
The grotesque war raging far to the north of them frequently provided a topic of conversation for the soldiers and sailors at the fortress but no actual sense of threat. The real enemy in the Dry Tortugas was the dazzling tropical sun. Its breathtaking heat and blinding glare could make a man slowly go crazy with skin rashes and hallucinations or cause a sunstroke that could kill him outright. Rank or position provided no protection in this place—senior officers and newly enlisted men were struck with egalitarian efficiency.
It was all so cruelly strange to the pasty, white-skinned boys from the Maine or Pennsylvania or New Jersey regiments. They hadn’t joined up for this, had never even imagined a place like this existed. Not long after each man’s arrival he would start to curse the incessant pounding of the sun, and by the time a week had passed he would despise the shadeless coral rock islands and those sadists in Washington who had sent him this godforsaken place. The boy from up north who used to love the warmth of the spring sun was now a man who hated it as his mortal enemy.
“Gawd, how I hate everything about this damned hell-hole! Smell the stink o’ the place. Ya’d think the poor army sods ashore would have better latrines than that. Half-wit fools can’t even get that right!”
Able Seaman Thomas Mason, sweat soaked and grimy, looked over at a privy on the dock a hundred yards away. Frustration vented, he bent down to seize a crate addressed to the army regimental staff ashore and, grunting out additional opinions about the soldiers of the garrison as he lifted, manhandled it to the edge of the gunwale with a crash. Mason lay over the top of it, catching his breath. Slinging a wave of slimy perspiration from a stubbled face, he gazed aft and sneered between gasps. From a gig alongside, a figure in a dark blue uniform had arrived on deck. The brass from the buttons and insignia gleamed in the steaming glare of the sunlight.
“Ah Lordy, Jackson, see what the United States Army in all their glory done sent us now? Will ya look at that little boy back there all dressed up like a officer. Ya know, maybe it’s a girlee by the look o’ him, come ta think on it. Gawd, no wonder they can’t get it done up in Virginia, little boys like that leading the army.”
White, the coxswain standing by the foremast and supervising the unloading detail, heard the comment and quickly silenced Mason, who was supposed to be helping Jackson sway down some gear into the workboat. The captain wanted to weigh anchor in an hour and they didn’t have much time left. And making fun of officers was never a good idea, especially when they might hear it.
“Mason, never you mind the army, it’s the ever lovin’ navy you’re in and the navy that’ll have your hide! Now shut your damned hatch and do your work, and mind that fall tackle there. Jackson, ya poxy idiot, get that damned thing lashed up proper and swayed over!”
With that said, White turned aft and examined the object of Mason’s sarcasm. Shaking his head and smiling, he found himself in silent agreement with Mason’s comment. The officer did look pretty pathetic.
The badly sunburned army second lieutenant who was the unknowing subject of Mason’s assessment looked distinctly uncomfortable as the St. James rolled with slow rhythm in the low swells of the anchorage off the fortress. Hanging onto a nearby shroud for support, the young man appeared to have little military experience and absolutely no confidence. Sweating profusely in his heavy wool formal coat and hat, he stood on the deck of the naval schooner trying to convey, as professionally as he could, a request from his colonel ashore to the captain of the vessel, Lieutenant Peter Wake of the United States Navy. Tanned and wearing a cool white duck cotton shirt and trousers, Wake’s lean frame swayed easily with the deck as he listened to the army officer’s awkward recitation of the message. The blinding sun made the army lieutenant’s eyes squint, accentuating his less than imposing appearance. The naval officer’s face, by contrast, was in the shade of a broad-brimmed straw hat, haggled from an ancient Bahamian weaver woman in a Key West tavern four months earlier. Wake, uncertain whether the lieutenant’s discomfort came from the nature of the request, the roll of the deck, or both, almost felt sorry for him until he thought about what the man—boy really—was asking him to do.
The lieutenant explained that the 52nd New Jersey Artillery, stationed there at Fortress Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas Islands, had managed to lose some of its men. Five of them, to be exact, had evidently decided to take “French leave” and head somewhere, anywhere, other than the notorious Dry Tortugas Islands. Wake stared at the lieutenant for a moment, wondering how you could lose five men out in the middle of nowhere in the Gulf of Mexico, but was distracted by some whispering forward. Around him the crew of the schooner snickered about the army’s problem and were offering ideas as to why the men had left the desolate outpost. The bosun of the schooner, Rork, standing with arms akimbo on the foredeck, soon put an end to their fun by putting them on the windless to heave the anchor rode short. Rork was not in a good mood. The crew knew the look on the bosun’s face too well. Wake returned his gaze to the unfortunate youngster before him.
“How in the world did they leave the islands here?”
“The Colonel thinks they took an old rowing boat that was on the beach at Bird Key. Nobody thought it would float. Thought it was pretty much rotted out, sir. But I guess they somehow patched it up and made it float. Musta’ made a sail
